WITH HOUND AND WILD-CAT 
make a pack from which little could 
escape. 
I remember four o’clock of an April 
morning a few years ago. The sun, 
of course, had not yet lifted himself 
above the wall of the Sierra Madre, but 
it was not dark in the sense of that inky 
blackness which usually just precedes 
the dawn. Instead the stars yet flick- 
ered in their myriad places and the 
whole world of the air seemed filled 
with a luminous glow. A mocking-bird 
sang near by and from his perch be- 
neath the eaves a linnet answered him, 
while all over the valley the barnyard 
cocks sent forth their first wavering 
challenges, each to each. I suppose it 
was a beautiful morning, yet I do not 
believe I noticed it or appreciated it 
half so much as the horse on to whose 
back I was hastily throwing a saddle. 
High in air he held his sorrel head, 
mincing about the while with his 
dainty feet as if all his world depended 
on his getting away with me on his 
back. 
And, finally, we did get started, he 
and I, with two good fox hounds a- 
trail. We rode up through the hills, 
past thickets of elder and water mootics 
from whose hidden corners bands of 
little blue quail called sweetly to the 
dawning day, and from whose tops 
noisy jays proclaimed their where- 
abouts to all the world. The road was 
good, the air cool and of such flavor 
as only southern California can pro- 
duce, so we pushed on right merrily, 
the dogs, knowing well that more 
serious business was in hand for them, 
letting sundry rabbits and huge pack- 
rats go by unnoticed. After about two 
miles of this we turned into a rude 
gateway and followed a winding trail 
up the sidehill to a rambling frame 
house set in an angle of the hillside and 
surrounded by a thin line of pepper and 
eucalyptus trees. Forth from this came 
my old friend Ed. G Chained 
round about were eight of as fine wild- 
cat hounds as I have ever seen. The 
wild-cat hound isn’t much to look at, 
he is all business. 

569 
After some little talk with Ed. about 
the weather, prospect for cats and those 
hundred-and-one other fool things that 
two hunters will always discuss ere 
they start out, I was taken into the 
house and introduced to the rest of the 
party. They were two in number and 
proved of the same jolly sort as Ed. 
Mrs. G was there also, but as her 
part in the hunt comes later, let us 
leave the house for the present. 
In ten or fifteen minutes we were 
off. The dogs, all except three of the 
most tried and trusted, were held in 
long leashes, running from Ed.’s sad- 
dle-horn. Out through the gate at the 
end of a long lane the way led and then 
through a low draw in the hills into a 
valley the center of which was now a 
shallow lake. 
At the other end of this lake a pair 
of coyotes were drinking as we rode 
into view. For an instant they stood 
as if carved in stone, so dull gray that 
they seemed to blend with the mist, to 
make the gray dawn more real than 
they themselves. Then they seemed 
to melt into nothingness. I know of 
no other animal that can so successfully 
do this trick as can the coyote, except 
the big gray lynx. The dogs did not 
see the little wolves, but their faithful 
noses warned them and they set up the 
wild howl of the chase. But we were 
in no mood to squander precious hours 
after the fleet-footed wolves. Indeed, 
though Ed. has caught them with this 
same pack of hounds, it is doubtful if 
we should have ever come up with the 
coyotes over such rough country, 
doubtful, too, if they would not have 
holed up in some one of the many low- 
lying caves to be found in these hills. 
So the horn was sounded and, slowly 
and regretfully, their tails a-trail, back 
came the dogs. 
We stopped at the lake a few min- 
utes and let the dogs drink their fill. 
Purposely they had not been given 
water at the house, even after their 
breakfast of cornmeal mush and 
“cracklin’s” from the butcher shop, 
and they were a bit dry now. None 

